Zach Harris stood at his twenty-fifth floor hotel room window. Below him lay Canal Street, with its streetcars and imported palm trees; beyond Canal, the beautiful decay of the French Quarter. The Mississippi River hugged the city’s southern border, creating the crescent shape for which it had been named; from his perch, he could see a steamboat docked at the Toulouse Street wharf.
New York hustled and Los Angeles pranced, but New Orleans, Zach had learned, swayed.
A love affair had begun.
He smiled to himself. He was good at pissing folks off, and changing his reservations to arrive two days ahead of the FBI schedule had done that in spades. Parker, his Sixer point man, had been furious when he’d realized what Zach had done.
Which was too damn bad. Zach wasn’t here for Parker’s agenda. He was here for his own.
Parker had discovered him in a club. His offer had intrigued: become a part of an elite group of crime fighters, ones the likes of which the world has never seen outside the realm of fiction. A superhero of sorts. With a shot at fame and everything that goes along with it.
What guy didn’t have that on his bucket list?
Besides, if he didn’t dig it, he’d move on.
His signature move.
But this gig wouldn’t be as easy to maneuver his way out of. He’d realized that the moment he stepped out of the New Orleans airport and into the humid night. A hum had settled into his head. A low vibration, like a radio between stations. The closer to downtown he’d gotten, the louder and more insistent the hum had become.
The city, talking to him.
He’d experienced this kind of chatter before. But not to this extent. It’d disoriented him, knocked him off balance. He’d felt drunk. Not a happy inebriated—not at first—but room spinning, unable to walk a straight line, head in the commode drunk.
Instead of trying to stifle it or hopping the next flight back to the west coast, he’d faced it head on.
Hair of the dog, baby. Soak it up. Roar back.
And in the process, he’d fallen in love with the city. A freaking magical place, full of shadows and whispers, celebrations and despair.
And others like him. Many of them. More than he’d ever sensed before. Zach turned away from the window. Did they know what they were, he wondered. Had they learned how to use their gifts? Or chosen to bury them?
Parker’s arrived.
A moment after the realization, his cell phone pinged, signaling the arrival of a text.
In lobby. We’re behind schedule.
Typical Parker. Few words. All business. Something about the guy made Zach want to mess with his head. Considering the thin ice he was already skating on, he’d resist the urge. For the moment.
Zach grabbed his jacket and headed down to the lobby. He joined Parker at the hotel entrance and together they walked out to a waiting SUV. Shiny. Black. The agent behind the wheel wore dark sunglasses nearly identical to Parker’s. Zach chuckled and climbed into the vehicle.
“Something funny?” Parker asked.
“This vehicle. Your shades. His.” He motioned the driver. “It’s all such a cliché.”
Parker removed the sunglasses, pinned him with his icy gaze. “Is this a game to you, Harris?”
He settled into the SUV’s back seat. “Define game.”
“After that stunt, I should pull you.”
“Do it.”
For a split second, he thought Parker might. Instead, the other man leaned forward. “You son of a bitch, get this now. We make the rules. Not you. We say get on a plane on the seventh at two P.M., that’s when you get on the fucking plane. Not before. Not after.”
Zach knew he should acquiesce. Back down, go with the flow. But that voice couldn’t compete with the part of him that had kept him on the edge all his life. “Let’s get this straight, Parker. You don’t own me. This program doesn’t own me. And right now, you need me more than I need you. That may change, but for now, get off my back.”
“Others are watching. Evaluating. You and me.” He paused. “I’ve put my ass on the line for you.”
He got that. Zach nodded. “Okay. Since it’s your ass, I’ll work at being a bit more considerate.”
No smile in response. No acknowledgement of the concession. Parker handed him a manila envelope. “Everything you need is in there.”
Zach removed the contents of the envelope, then thumbed through the papers, stopping on a photograph of a blond woman in a police uniform. She had looked directly at the camera lens; the tilt of her chin suggested either arrogance or a chip on her shoulder; the serious set of mouth, that she meant business. He cocked his head. If she’d relax that beautiful mouth, she’d look a bit like a blond Angelina Jolie.
He tapped the photo and glanced at Parker. “My new partner, I presume?”
“Detective Michaela Dare. Goes by Micki or Mick. Also DoubleD or Mad Dog. ”
“Mad Dog?”
“She has a temper and isn’t afraid to use it.”